by Steve Brewer
“The bank won’t do a third on the house,” Buddy said. “Fact, I’m a couple months behind and they’re gonna take it if I don’t catch up by the end of next week.” Buddy’s voice was wavering, like he might crack if he had to talk about it any more. “Lynn’s real sick, Bill. I gotta keep that publishing. I need that money real bad.”
“That’s a shame,” Big Bill said flatly. “I’m real sorry, that’s the truth.”
Buddy finally looked Bill in the eyes. “I’m begging you. I need your help. Lynn’s gotta get that treatment or I’m gonna lose her.” He looked back at the floor. “Ask yourself what Jesus would do and I know you’ll do the right thing. That publishing money’s the only thing I got left.”
“That’s tough all right,” Big Bill said, “but listen, this ain’t Bible School and I really don’t appreciate you dragging all the personal stuff into this. It’s unprofessional. I mean, you don’t hear me pissin’ and moanin’ about all the bills I gotta pay, do you? All my personal problems? And believe me, I got more’n I can say grace over.”
Buddy put a hand to his face to hide his tears. “I’m sorry, but I don’t wanna lose her.”
Bill held up their agreement. “Buddy, we’re just gonna do what we agreed on,” he said. “That’s all. Only thing left to do here is figure out the multiple.” The multiple was a factor used when determining the value of the publishing rights on a catalogue of music, though in this case it was just for the one song. Depending on the marketplace, the multiple typically ranged anywhere from three to fifteen times the current annual revenues the publishing generated. The agreement stated they would negotiate the multiple according to the market as of the due date of the loan.
Buddy hated to do it, but he didn’t have much choice. He just hoped Big Bill would consider his situation and help him out. He took a moment to compose himself, setting his jaw, steeling himself for the business. “Well now, I’ve been asking around,” Buddy said, “and just about everybody I talk to agrees ‘Good Old Daze’ has got some legs on it and, well, I think we oughta be talking about a multiple of at least ten.”
Big Bill shook his head like a disappointed teacher. “Ten, huh? He scratched the back of his neck. “I guess me and you must talk to different folks ‘cause my survey says it’s more like a one. It’s not getting the radio play it used to, nobody else is recordin’ it, and Lord knows Carson Fletcher’s records ain’t selling much any more. Things is just flat out there, Buddy. You ask around town, nobody’s making money on anything.”
Buddy looked up, startled. “One? One’s not a multiple! Stop horsin’ around with me, Bill. You know that song’s worth a lot more’n that.”
“I sure wish the market was in better shape,” Big Bill said. “Just bad timing, I guess, but I don’t think I can go any higher. I’ll give you fifteen grand for it right now.”
“I can’t take that, Bill. That don’t get me outta my hole much less get me down to Mexico to get Lynn her treatment. I can come down to nine, but that’s it. I just can’t do it for less than that.”
“Well, damn, that leaves us about a hundred’n twenty thousand dollars apart.”
“Bill, if you can’t do nine, you gotta let me go across the street with it. I know I can get nine from Johnny Rae and that’ll let me pay you back with the interest and I can still take Lynn for that treatment.”
Big Bill face drained of all humanity. He picked up the agreement and read for a moment before thumping the page with his finger. “Says here I got thirty days to come up with a counter offer,” he said. “So I guess I’m gonna need some time to think it over.” He folded the agreement and slipped it back in the envelope, then he stood up. “I’ll call you at the end of next month.” He smiled. “How’s that sound?”
Buddy swallowed hard. Visions of Lynn’s funeral passed his narrowing field of vision. “I ain’t got thirty days. Doctor said Lynn’s only got a couple weeks without that treatment, and even then he can’t say for sure.”
Big Bill nodded. “Well, my offer for fifteen grand still stands. You can take that right now.” He winked at Buddy. “Either way, it’s up to you.”
20.
The Dirty Dawg Howse in Starkville, Mississippi catered to fans of the Mississippi State Bulldogs. The walls were covered with team pennants, schedules, flags, and neon beer signs.
Boomer and Skeets were second string tackles. They were at the Dirty Dawg Howse drinking beers with a couple of girls they’d just met. Naturally the two big boys were trying to impress the co-eds. “What the hell you tryin’ to say?” Boomer hammered a fist on the table top. He demanded an answer and, at six-foot-four, 280 pounds, you’d think he’d get one pretty quick.
But Skeets was six-five and 275, so he wasn’t particularly intimidated. In fact he just sat there, smirking, peeling the label off his bottle, wondering if he was getting laid tonight.
“Don’t just sit there grinnin’ like a barrel of possum heads,” Boomer said. “You sayin’ I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about?”
Skeets leaned onto one of his beefy forearms. “I’m sayin’ you can’t measure a snake ‘till it’s stretched out dead. What are you, from Alabama or something? I’m speakin’ English.” He looked at the girls and winked. They giggled.
Without taking his eyes off Skeets, Boomer turned his head slightly and spit some tobacco juice onto the floor. “Shit, boy, you better put it down where the goats can get it if you expect anybody to understand what—” Boomer didn’t get to explain his point fully because Skeeter suddenly hit him upside the head with a beer bottle. All hell broke loose as the two behemoths exploded into one another sending bottles and ashtrays crashing to the floor. The girls jumped up from the table, squealing, tickled that two rutting bucks would put on a show just for them.
Then, out of the blue, a screeching chaos roared over the house loud- speakers. “Hey, goddammit!” a voiced howled over the sound system. Everyone in the place stopped and turned to look at the small stage in the corner of the room. There they saw Eddie Long standing with his guitar and his eyes burning. He had a bottleneck wedged on one of his fingers which he ran up and down the neck of the guitar while torturing the strings into a caterwaul. The place fell silent, all eyes on Eddie. “Now, I’m here to play some music. You two wanna play Gladiator, go somewhere else.” There was a pause before the crowd applauded Eddie’s command of the situation. They laughed and hooted some more as Boomer and Skeets and the two girls were escorted from the place.
Eddie had booked a weekend gig at the Dirty Dawg Howse. It was his first since Tammy’s funeral. He thought a college crowd would be a good focus group for the new song. He opened his set with ‘Dixie National,’ one of his upbeat honkey-tonkers, then went into his usual repertoire. About fifteen minutes into his set, Eddie saw familiar faces at the door. Jimmy and Megan had driven up from Jackson. They worked their way through the crowd and found a table in the back. Megan tried to make eye contact with Eddie while Jimmy ordered beers.
Eddie was working through his version of ‘Act Naturally.’ The crowd sang along with the only line they knew, “. . .and all I gotta do is, act naturally. . .” Eddie looked great in the bright light, wearing his black jeans and white t-shirt with an unbuttoned work shirt over it. He moved like nobody’s business up there and, by the end of the song, the audience was his. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.” Eddie made eye contact and acknowledged Jimmy and Megan with that subtle upward nod musicians on stage share with their close fans.
Eddie pulled a barstool over to the mic and sat down for the first time that night. He dropped out of his antic, fun guy persona. “If you folks don’t mind, I’m gonna slow things down just a bit and do something new for you.” His tone was somber, almost confessional. The lights dimmed as Eddie prepared for his big moment. He slid the capo down a fret and strummed the guitar slowly once, then again. He tuned one string, then another, stretching things out and built the anticipation. This was, after all, theater.
W
hen Eddie looked up from his guitar, the crowd saw a changed man. The hundred watt smile had been turned off and there was something different about his body language and his gaze. Eddie was serious, wounded, shocked, and ready to confess. Having seen Eddie’s show so many times, Jimmy sensed this more than anyone. He’d never seen Eddie put on this mask. He felt something of consequence in the air, so he clicked his pen, ready to write.
Eddie was still strumming the guitar slowly, a chord change here, a chord change there. “This time last month,” he said, “I got the notion in my hard head that I pretty much knew how things were going to turn out in my life, like I was in control of things. I had a wife. I had some gigs lined up playing my music and figured it was just a matter of time ‘fore I hit it big.” Eddie cracked a wry smile and shook his head. “To quote a famous Mississippi songwriter, ‘Have you ever seen a bigger fool than me?’” He bent a note and tried to look ironic. “Well, it turns out I was wrong. Turns out this is the only gig I’ve got lined up in the foreseeable future. I don’t know if I’m ever going to make it to the big time, and even if I do, I won’t be able to share it with my wife because . . . because she died not long ago.” He strummed a minor chord, beautiful and sad, and let that sink in. The place was stone silent, even the bartenders had stopped to listen.
Eddie resumed strumming the guitar slowly. “She was beautiful and I loved her, I gotta say that, but she’s gone now and. . . well, it just goes to show you. . .” He shook his head. It looked for a moment like he might cry, but he kept it together. “Anyway, after she died, I moved up to Nashville where something happened I can’t really explain. I can’t put words to it, but one night, it was late and I was struggling with all my emotions about what had happened and—” Eddie stopped playing and he leaned forward onto the body of the guitar. “And all the sudden, a song just. . . I dunno, it just sort of poured out of me. Like I said, I can’t explain it. It just . . . happened.” He resumed playing. “Anyway, I know her soul’s in this song and I’d like to do it for you now. This is the first time I’ve played this for anybody, so bear with me. I hope you like it. It’s called, ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way.’”
Most of the women in the place were crying before Eddie started to sing. Megan was in tears and Jimmy was on the verge, wiping his eyes so he could see enough to make notes in his notepad. He wanted to get that speech down verbatim. The song opened in a medium slow tempo, a bar or two of lament. It put Megan in mind of a sad hymn with each change softly chosen. Then he started to sing, and it came straight from his soul.
When the song was over, there were no dry eyes in the house. Jimmy was astonished. This was as close to perfect as a song got. Eddie soaked up the applause and humbly thanked the crowd. His melancholy smile conveyed appreciation as well as a sadness appropriate to the moment. The crowd’s response confirmed that Eddie had that rare and valuable thing known as a hit. After a moment, he got off the stool, took a modest bow, then resumed his usual set. He got the house rocking with a Steve Earle cover followed by an original. Then he played himself off the stage with Lefty Frizzell’s, “She’s Gone, Gone, Gone.” He got a standing ovation and came back out for a second bow, but he didn’t do an encore. He left them wanting more. Eddie took off his guitar and held it up. “I’m gonna take a little break, folks. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes, so stick around and be sure to tip your waitresses.”
After his set Eddie joined Jimmy and Megan at their table. Megan jumped up and wrapped her arms around him. “Eddie, I am so sorry about Tammy,” she said. “The song is beautiful.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” He held on to Megan, enjoying the feel of her sympathy. “And thanks for your note and the flowers. That was real nice.”
As Jimmy waited for Megan to unwrap herself from Eddie, he wondered about the etiquette of grief hugs. Weren’t you supposed to keep your pelvis away from the other person’s? Megan obviously didn’t think so, and Eddie didn’t seem to mind. Jimmy thought hugging Eddie would be the emotionally correct thing for him to do, but the Dirty Dawg Howse seemed like the wrong place to do it. Besides, he wasn’t sure they were quite that close. When the time came, he opted for a firm left hand on the back side of a regular handshake, a sincere minister sort of thing. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “How’re you doing?”
Eddie shrugged. “All right, I guess. All things considered.” They sat down and a waitress brought a round for the table. Megan reached over and put her hand on Eddie’s. “I wish you had a recording of that, I’d love to play it on my show.”
Eddie smiled. “Really?” He gave Jimmy a How about that? look. He turned back to Megan. Her hand was still on his. “That’d be great,” Eddie said. “I mean, I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. But when someone in the business, I mean, you’re a professional radio programmer—”
“Look, I’m just the assistant music director, but my boss listens to me.”
“Still, that means a lot, coming from you.”
Jimmy wrote something in his notebook then looked up. “It really is a great song. You really have something there. I mean, seriously, that’s a hit.”
“Thanks, man, I appreciate that. But I tell ya, if that’s what you gotta go through for a great song, I’m gonna have to find a new job.”
Jimmy nodded. “How long did it take to write? You said it just poured out of you, what was that like?” He was poised over his writing pad.
Eddie smiled. “You’re really serious about writing that book, aren’t you?”
“Hell yes, I’m serious. I’ve already written about thirty pages,” Jimmy said. “It’s a little scattered and I’ll have to go back and get some information about your ‘formative years’ but, yeah, I’m serious. And I’ll tell you, after hearing that song, I’m more convinced than ever you’re going to make it.”
“I appreciate that,” Eddie said, “I really do, but—”
“Oh, wait a second,” Jimmy said. “Maybe you can answer this.” He flipped back a few pages in his pad. “Do you know who said, ‘writing about music is like dancing about architecture?’”
Eddie thought about it a moment. “I think it was Elvis.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s a little out of the King’s range.”
“No,” Eddie said, “Costello. But I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Hmm, that’s the first time his name’s come up. Megan thinks it was Frank Zappa.” He wrote Elvis Costello’s name under Zappa’s. “But neither one sounds right to me.”
Eddie watched Jimmy writing in his notebook until Megan gave his hand a tender squeeze. When he looked over, Megan’s violet eyes were all his. And then, subtly, she winked at him.
Jimmy was too involved in his writing to notice. He knew others would come along to write about Eddie, but Jimmy’s would be the definitive biography. He was the only guy who’d been there from the start. His would be the only book to have Eddie’s first speech about ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way.’ His imagination started to run away. Rolling Stone might preview a few chapters in a feature article, and from there, who knew what could happen?
“Here you go Eddie.” Jimmy looked up and saw the club’s manager standing by the table holding out a cassette. “Great set,” he said, slapping Eddie on the back.
“Is that what I think it is?” Megan reached for the tape.
Eddie pulled it out of reach. “I had ‘em record it off the board,” he said. “I’m sending it to some publishers and artist managers.” He smiled as he felt one of Megan’s hands dancing lightly on his thigh. “And I’ll make one for you too.”
21.
“Get it girl!” Doreen hollered as she watched Estella bump and grind to the funky percussion coming from the jukebox. Estella was on the floor dancing to Slim Harpo’s 1966 hit, ‘Baby Scratch My Back.’ Otis was out there with her, clapping his hands as he circled Estella’s big wiggling planet like a skinny little satellite. His choreography was starchy, his steps painful
and economic due to arthritis. The ache informed his dance resulting in a style that was pure Otis.
Toward the end of the song, Estella lapsed into some final, frenzied gyrations. “That’s it, that’s it,” Otis said, backing out of the way until she was done. “Mmmmm-lawd! Yes! Nobody move like my sweet baby,” Otis said.
Estella was laughing hard when the song ended. She plopped down at the table next to her old friends, Doreen and her husband, Maurice. “Child, it’s too hot in here to be dancin’ like that,” Doreen said as she dabbed at her forehead with a napkin. “I ain’t even movin’ I’m all wet.”
Maurice pushed a cold beer over to Doreen. “Cool on down with that, mama.” He said it like Don Cornelius or something, a real smoooove operator, sort of Barry White by way of Billy Dee Williams.
Estella picked up a menu and fanned herself. “I’m tellin’ you,” she said. “I know I ain’t dance like that in a long time.” She laughed and pulled Otis into her big lap. “But I still got it!”
“Yes, baby, you do,” Otis said, patting Estella’s substantial thigh. “And you always will.” He turned around and kissed her cheek and they both laughed some more. It was nearly four in the morning. There were only three customers left in the joint and they were just drinking. Otis had closed the kitchen hours ago and, until he got up to dance to Slim Harpo, he’d been sitting with Doreen, Maurice, and Estella just talking about the old days.
Maurice started chuckling. “I know you ‘member that show down in Baton Rouge. . .” He ducked his head and started giggling so hard he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“You talkin’ about that night the police came backstage and caught that funny boy playing with hisself. . .ooohhh child! And that promoter throwin’ a buttonhole on that half-and-half.” Doreen slapped a hand down on the table. “Liked to never stop!”